Ne'er Be Clean
by CapturedTsunami
Summary: Dean remembers and Castiel makes it better. Destiel. Inspired by Lady Macbeth. "Out damn spot! Out, I say! ... What, will these hands ne'er be clean?"
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **This little idea came to me recently while I was traveling cross country with my husband and kids – my DH and I tend to speak in book, movie, and play quotes and somehow we managed to quote the majority of _Macbeth_ back and forth somewhere around Wichita, KS. Once in my head I couldn't get this out. So. Here it is. I originally planned for it to be a one shot but it got a little lengthier than I thought it'd be so I just broke it up.

While this is in not a sequel to my fic "Interruptions" there is passing mention to some of the content. You don't need to read it to get this.

Reviews make my day.

**Warning:** Sexual content, language, and torture/violence.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Supernatural. God help me.

* * *

_Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One: two: why,  
__then, 'tis time to do't.—Hell is murky!—Fie, my  
__lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we  
__fear who knows it, when none can call our power  
__to account?_

…

_What, will these hands ne'er be clean?—No more o' _

_that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with _

_this starting._

Lines by Lady Macbeth, _Macbeth_ Act 5, Scene 1

* * *

Dean barely managed to catch himself before he hit the floor.

He wrenched his eyes open as his mind slammed into consciousness, clenching his jaw to keep back both the cries and the bile that clogged his throat. So much, always so damn much. He didn't know why he bothered to sleep anymore. Sure, sometimes he actually managed to get some rest but mostly it was just… _this_. Night after night of clawing his way to consciousness, vainly hoping that he might get there before he started screaming, before the memories and sensations filling his mind overwhelmed him completely. Wakefulness wouldn't save him from them, but at least awake he could exert some amount of control over his own body. Things were always so much harder to hide from Sammy if Dean happened to wake him with screams, sobbing, or – god forbid – the unmistakable sound of Dean retching. As if that could get what was inside of him out.

If only things were that easy.

Slowly, feeling like he'd been beaten, Dean managed to drag his sorry ass back onto the crappy motel bed. He wasn't entirely sure why he bothered. Between the tangle of sheets around his sweat slicked torso and the fact that he was more than fifty percent of the way to the floor already it would have just been simpler – and probably less painful – to just let himself drop to the worn orange paisley of the carpet. But that made noise. And noise would make Sammy. Who would probably try and turn _this_ into an episode of Dr. Phil.

Besides, Dean was pretty sure that having an in depth talk with Sam about what happened to him while he was in hell would be the absolute worst thing to do in this situation.

He already saw the monster he was when he looked in the mirror. He didn't need to see it on Sam's face. It was bad enough the kid already knew what he'd done. He didn't need to know the gritty details.

Ever.

Breathing heavily through his nose, his arms trembling with exhaustion, Dean flopped back onto the bed. It was a crappy bed. A crappy bed in a motel room that was crappy even by their standards. Figures that the latest case would be in a town so small it didn't even warrant a proper cheap motel. No expensive ones, either. Just this little dump tucked on the edge of town and run by a couple so old that he wouldn't be surprised to find them slumped over the check in desk in the morning, dead as a doornail.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath, scrubbing at his eyes. He can't shut them. He can't. It's bad enough with his eyes open – no way he's closing them again. Not right now.

Not tonight.

Or ever, if he could manage it.

Forcing himself to inhale slowly, Dean counted his way through the act of breathing and managed to quell the main surge of nausea through sheer force of will. _I will not be sick. I will not be sick. I will not be sick_, he chanted to himself as he let his eyes roam the room. He searched for something – _anything_ – to fill up some part of his brain, to save some of himself from the unrelenting tide that still sought to consume him.

It was dark, the only illumination coming from the muted TV currently making the rounds through infomercial land. He'd been watching some shitty end of the world type movie in an attempt to not fall asleep. Clearly _that_ had worked out well for him. The ancient alarm clock on the bed stand between the two full sized beds read 2:48. On the other side of the small divide Sam was still blissfully unconscious, his huge feet sticking off the edge of the bed and his face planted so deep in the pillows it was a god damn miracle the kid was still breathing. Relief that he hadn't woken his brother and outright envy at the kid's ability to sleep warred inside of Dean as his eyes came full circle and fell on the tangle of gold, brown, and white bedding beside him.

It was empty.

Of course it was empty. End of the World. Important Business. Demons versus Angel. Only Angel with a Brain.

Of course Cas wasn't there.

Not like the bastard knew how to sleep anyway.

Chances were good that if he _had_ been there Dean wouldn't have gotten much sleep. He'd have been too busy convincing the angel that he didn't need to buy the Busty Bowflex Bender or the Super Speedy Kitchen Samurai or whatever shit they were currently advertising on the television. Dean would have probably had to resort to blowing him or something equally pleasant, which while enjoyable would have woken Sammy.

Even with a gag the angel was loud.

Now, why couldn't those memories be the ones pushing at the inside of his skull? Why couldn't _those_ images and noises be the ones that filled him up until it was a god damn miracle that his fucking eyes weren't popping out of his head because of the pressure? Why did he have to be stuck with _this_?

Always _this._ So much of it. Over and over and over…

He would never be free of it.

… _The girl shrieks, back bowing as Dean strokes at her heart through the hole he's carved in her chest. He can feel it thumping wilding against his touch, running and jerking like a rabbit as it tries to get away. Silly of course, where's the damn thing to go after all? It's nice that she's lasted this long, though. Everyone else he's been by to see today has given in so easy. Fucking pansies. Hopped off the first chance he gave them. Why, the last one – a congressman, he thinks – got himself released before Dean had the skin halfway off his balls. Damn politicians. They always did go too easily. _

_ Of course, that's probably why they were here in the first place._

_ Dean wraps his fingers around the pulsating muscle and squeezes, the girl rewarding him with another scream that they can no doubt hear halfway across hell. So very nice of her. His fingers tighten and the scream morphs into continual wails and wordless begging. He can feel every little strand of muscle, every little thread of her frantically beating heart as they give way to the pressure of his fingers and slide back and forth like floss underneath the tips of his fingernails. With a wrench that no doubt looks easier than it actually is – he's one of the best after all – he rips her heart out of her chest and holds it between them._

_ It's a lovely thing that fits in the palm of his hand, still jumping like a god damn jackhammer and sending blood down his arm in rhythmic gushes. The girl is staring at him, shrieks dulled to whimpers by the shock of seeing her own heart outside of her body._

_Newbies. They were always so much fun._

_ Everyone makes the same mistake at first. They forget that they're already dead. It doesn't matter what Dean does to them; it doesn't matter how much he breaks their bodies and tortures their mind. There is no end for them, no blessed relief of slipping away. When they're too broken to be fun anymore they wake up whole and unblemished, ready for the fun to begin again._

_It takes time, but they learn. Usually after a couple of days. If they last that long. _

_ Lately everyone's been cashing in their chips after the first round, or even before it ends, which is all sorts of disappointing. Some make it longer though – a couple days at least, which is the best he can hope for, honestly._

_ Like her._

_ Dean digs his teeth into the heart and rips a chunk out. Not as crisp as an apple, but you couldn't win at everything could you? This is Hell after all._

_ "So here's the deal princess," Dean explains around the mouthful of heart. "There are only two positions in Hell. On or Off," he nods pointedly at the rack. "You can party with the rest of us or you can be… part of the lovely entertainment-buffet combo." He takes another bite. "Really, it makes no difference to me but I'm required to ask. Rules," he shrugs and lets out a suffering sigh, leaning against the restraints that held her suspended. _

_ "Be… like… you…?" she wheezes out. It's hard to understand her, but then again he had done a number on her vocal cords earlier. In fact, he's pretty sure he's got part of them strung around his neck like a god damn bow tie._

_ "Well… maybe eventually. Don't think you'll start off like this," he motions at his torso, limbs slick with blood and gleaming in the hell-light. "I'm special, sister. Most don't got what _this_ takes."_

_ She hesitates and he sees. He stands and watches, kneading the remains of her heart in his hands while she tries to decide just how brave she is. Just how _good_ she thinks she is._

_ Please. Like anyone good ever ends up in Hell. That'd kind of defeat the purpose of the place, wouldn't it?_

_ "No,"_ _she whispers. It's soft, even for the amount of damage he did to the vocal cords, rubs his hands together, stretching out his fingers. "So," he asks casually, flashing her a grin, "kidneys or breasts? Cause I'm still starving." ..._

Dean stumbled off the bed, kicking off the sheets that clung to his legs and lunged for the door. Out. He had to get out. Out of here. Out of the dark. Out of this fucking box that trapped him.

It was the best he could do.

He sure as hell wasn't getting out of his own head.

* * *

The cool night air hit him like a slap in the face.

Dean staggered out of the door to their room, somehow managing to close the door behind him. Gut churning, head pounding he moved unconsciously, the stone of the parking lot crunching beneath his feet. He went down near the back of the Baby, hand slamming painfully into the curve of the trunk, fingers scrambling for purchase as his body dragged enough that he could distantly feel a knee digging into the gravel.

Everything that he'd eaten in the last twenty-four hours burned its way back up his throat and ended up in an indentation left by the Impala's wheels. His entire torso heaved, the additional pressure making his eyes bulge. His lungs burned for oxygen that he couldn't give them as his body sought to cleanse itself long after every drop of his stomach's contents was on the ground.

When he was finally done he stayed where he was, half kneeling, half slumped over the tail of the Baby. Dimly he was aware of a high keening noise. Not a sob, not a scream – both. Only quieter.

Him.

He'd certainly heard that sound enough to know.

"Son of a bitch," he swore as he pressed his head to the smooth, shiny surface of his car. Gradually, every joint screaming with pain, he managed to haul himself to his feet. He stood, arms braced against the trunk, swaying on his feet for a longer than he'd like before he gathered the strength to stagger down the length of the car to the driver's side door.

There was a bottle of whiskey tucked under the driver's seat for emergencies. Mostly empty, it was still better than nothing. Dean slumped against his car and raised the bottle to his lips, letting the amber liquid swish around his mouth before burning its way down to his gut. For a moment he debated climbing into the Baby and settling into the familiar dips and curves of its seats with the smell of sun warmed leather and the leftover traces of every fancy ass shampoo and aftershave Sam had ever bought. The very thought of being trapped, even in the safety of the Baby, sent his heart to hammering again, a cold sweat breaking out over his clammy skin.

It was another minute or so before Dean gathered the strength to hoist himself onto the hood of the Impala. Every muscle in his body screamed as he moved but he ignored them. Or rather, he ignored them as much as he could, settling gingerly down with his back to the windshield. On nights like this it was like they remembered everything that he had done and everything that had been done to him.

That was a lot of shit.

There wasn't enough morphine in the world to make it go away.

Dean tipped his head back and stared into the sky.

The middle-of-fucking-nowhere status that had granted them such crappy accommodations also blessed him with a beautiful view of the velvety blue expanse overhead. Heart hammering, hands shaking, Dean traced meaningless patterns across the sky with his gaze. It was easier to breathe out here in the cool night air, the light breeze easing the sweat from his shaking limbs as it flowed over him. Out here, at the very fringes of civilization, he could hear it rustling through the nearby trees and whispering through the motel's overgrown flowerbeds and the field across the street. It was, no doubt, one of the most beautiful noises he'd ever heard.

_Breathe, you bastard_, he told himself. _In: one, two, three, and out…. In: one, two, three, and out… See? Breathing. You're alive. Hear the wind? See the trees? Smell the god damn flowers? You're not there. Cas pulled you out. God damn it, you got _out_. Stop being such a girl. Just breathe. You can't stop it. Just breathe. Just…_

"Dean."

"Son of a bitch!" Dean jerked against the windshield, heart slamming to a complete standstill behind his ribs. "Cas," he gasped as he hastily clenched his hands over his kneecaps to hide their shaking. "Shit. What have I told you about just _appearing_?" He glanced sideways, heart giving a painful lurch in his chest as his eyes took in the sight of the angel reclining next to him, legs stretched out across the hood of the Impala. He'd be a piss-poor lying bastard if he couldn't admit – at least to himself – that the angel's presence eased some of the pressure in his head.

The angel blinked slowly. "I apologize for causing you more distress," Castiel responded with his normal care, his deep voice rumbling across the short distance between them and washing over Dean's skin. Easily one of the most beautiful sounds he'd ever heard.

"What are you even doing – wait. _More_ distress?"

Cas raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Are you not distressed, Dean? I could feel it," he added quietly as Dean looked away in response to his question. "I believe the social norm is to ask if you want to ta…"

"No," Dean cut him off harshly, scrubbing at his face. "No talking. Not about this. Never about this. I can't…I just can't, Cas. It's bad enough that I…" he shook his head and moved his gaze to the stars. Castiel was silent beside him for a long moment, shifting carefully until the sleeve of his trench coat brushed up against Dean's arm, the length of his leg following the line of Dean's, barely touching through denim and slacks. "I can't tell Sam. I can't tell you. I can't, Cas. I just can't," he added quietly, hoping that he didn't sound nearly as broken as he felt.

"Hell?"

Dean jerked his head, lips pressed into a think line. He wouldn't talk about it. He just needed to breathe. He'd be better in the morning. They'd be off on the case and he could focus, his mind filling with things he was stopping instead of things he had done. No more remembering. Not until he shut his eyes again.

"Dean?"

He sighed wearily and turned his head to look at the angel, who was studying him with the unnerving intensity he had come to expect. There was something else there, reluctance and thoughtfulness warring on his handsome face. "Yes Cas?"

The angel regarded him a moment longer and then reached toward him, clearly expecting him to flinch away. That, the fact that Cas knew that he would try and get away, made him grit his teeth and remain still as the angel gently wrapped his hands around one of Dean's. Under normal circumstances Dean was a tactile person. He liked to touch. He liked to be touched. He liked both all the more when it involved Cas.

But this, right now?

Son of a bitch.

"You do not need to tell me, Dean."

"Damn right I don't need to," Dean growled, weaving his fingers through Cas' and clenching until his knuckles turned white.

"You misunderstand me, Dean," Castiel continued quietly. "I mean that you don't need to tell me because I already know."

Dean snorted and shook his head. "Right. Because a fucking _Angel of the Lord_ knows what I went through, what I did in _Hell_."

"Yes."

Castiel's calm, sure reply tore a bitter bark of laughter from Dean's lips. "Did I _pray_ them to you?" he asked harshly. "Did I send them to you in some fucked up compensation for all the pornos?"

"No."

Dean inhaled sharply. God damn angel. Getting answers out of Cas sometimes was like trying to pull molars with a pair of tweezers. _Breathe. One. Two. Three. Exhale, Dean. Exhale, you bastard. _"Then. What. The. Hell."

"I was there," Castiel finally murmured after a long, drawn out silence in which he had stared reflectively into the sky, searching for something.

"What?"

"Hell. Dean, I was there." The angel offered him gently. "The hordes of Heaven, myself included, lay siege to Hell for forty years. Where else would I have been?" Dean blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, and blinked again. "Hell is not a location; it is a plane of existence. The walls that surround it are not purely physical. Hell is like… a bubble… and we surrounded it on all sides. I was there, every day, all day when they put you on that rack and I was there every day, all day, even after you got down."

All the air fell out of Dean's lungs in a rush and his eyes fluttered shut for just a brief moment, torn between protecting himself from what was pressing against the inside of his skull and what was pressing against his ears. "You saw?" his rasped out, prying his eyes back open as the onslaught of images renewed their attack. That Cas had seen him, seen what he had done. Dean felt the sudden need to stick his head between his knees and gulp air until the sky stopped reeling. How could the angel stand to work with him? How could he stand to touch him? To hold his hand? To…

The evenness of Castiel's deep tone broke through the hysteria, drawing him back. "Yes. I saw and I heard. From the moment they drug your soul in to the moment my hand gripped you tight and pulled you out I could hear you screaming, begging for someone to save you."

"Thirty years," Dean broke in bitterly. "I only screamed thirty years. Should have held out longer."

"If that is what you really believe, then you are lying to yourself," Cas murmured. "That is the secret of hell. It is meant to cause pain, a judgment of eternal suffering. You are a righteous man – you are," the angel repeated firmly, overriding Dean's scoff of disbelief, "and the torture was painful, but the guilt? The guilt over what you were doing? I believe you hurt more in those last ten years than can possibly be measured. That is what Hell truly is. In the end, it is only you – trapped destroying yourself over and over again for all of eternity."

And wasn't that just twisted as fuck.

"The screaming was the worst," Dean finally admitted as a shudder rippled through his flesh. "More than the torture, more than what I did; hell, the screaming itself was worse than the fact that I enjoyed what I was doing. Because in the back of my head, I knew. I knew what I was, what I had become, and I knew I would never be able to escape it." He snorted and shook his head. "I can't escape it Cas. You saved me from the Pit and I managed to bring the fucking thing with me. During the day I can lie through my teeth and convince myself that I'm okay but nights like this?" He laughed. Even to him it was a hollow, bitter sound. "There's nothing I can do, Cas. Nothing. No matter how many people I save, how many monsters I stop … I'll never be able to wipe my slate clean. I will _never_ be able to erase what I did." The angel sighed and reached across their legs with his free hand, covering the hand that he already held and squeezing it tightly. He shut his eyes and looked away, the delicate cage of his control threatening to shatter beneath the angel's touch.

…_ "Beautiful, Dean. Just beautiful," Alastair drawls, trailing the long length of his fingers through the ruined hills and valleys of flesh and blood. "You have always been such an artist."_

_ He smirks, feeling the demon's eyes flicker over to him as Dean traces the long, curved edge of the blade with his tongue…_

"Dean…"

"Don't, Cas," he cut the angel off roughly, wrenching his eyes open. "We're not talking about it."

He doesn't talk about these things. It doesn't matter – except it _does_ – that Cas apparently knows everything. Even things Dean doesn't normally admit to himself. He won't talk about this. He can't.

Doing so would let it consume him.

Completely.

"Don't," he managed to growl out as a familiar sensation – something between the whisper of gently moving air, the tingle of faint electric shocks as you slid across carpet, and that itch you got between your shoulder blades when someone was watching you a little too closely – shivered along his spine. Every hair on his body twitched, standing on end as he moved, grabbing onto Castiel's arm with his spare hand, tightening his grip until to just this side of bruising. "Don't," he repeated roughly. "I need you." It was as close as he would get to begging. As close as he _could_ get to opening his mouth and saying all the things choking in his throat.

_Don't leave me alone with this. Maybe it's all psychobabble – because you pulled me out. Maybe it's because I love you. Your presence helps. It drives away the darkness. It makes me believe, if just for a moment, in something good. I need that. I need you. I'm drowning out here. I'm broken. I can't fix myself. I can't save myself. I can't. Don't go. Don't leave me out here with myself. Please._

God, he was turning into such a chick.

Castiel regarded him silently for a long, drowning moment. "Of course," he murmured. The deep, careful precision of his voice eased something in Dean's chest, letting him inhale sharply with relief. "Of course," the angel repeated.

"You…you sure you don't have some important angel crap to take care of?" Inside, Dean cursed enough to make a sailor's ears bleed. Why the fuck did he always feel the need to give Cas an out?

_Because you don't deserve him, you dumb bastard. That's why._

Castiel's face twitched. "No," he replied firmly, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against' Dean's forehead. "I don't."

"Oh," Dean whispered hoarsely into the curve of the angel's throat. The tide in his head withdrew, just a little, at the angel's touch. "Good."

Because, when it came to this, that was as close he'd ever be able to get to saying thank you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning: **Smut.

Shocking. I know.

* * *

Dean growled a little in protest as Castiel lifted his lips from his forehead, though further protestations died on his tongue as the angel moved forward enough to press his forehead squarely against Dean's. It was an action that left him nothing to look at but those brilliant blue eyes. Compared to what was going on behind his skull it was the god damn Promised Land.

Of course, he thought that anyway.

Jimmy Novak had been a decent guy. In more ways than one. Better than Dean, certainly. His eyes had even been blue. But not _that_ blue. Not center of a burning star, sunlight through a fucking sapphire _blue_. That was all Castiel.

And it was the only thing Dean could see.

God bless Cas.

Slowly the angel unwound his fingers from Dean's, thumbs stroking softly across his wrists and the back of his hands as their breaths mingled – a hot humid pocket that pressed against their nostrils and slid around the edges of their lips. Hands freed, Castiel moved his fingers up Dean's bare forearms and over the sleeve of his tee with a feather light touch. When Cas reached his shoulders he paused, thumbs swiping lazily over his collarbone, soothing away some of the tremors that wracked Dean's body before starting back down.

This was different than normal.

Normally, they're a bit… rougher. Like that time in Boise when Dean made Castiel scream so much his angel mojo broke all the motel windows. Or the time in nowhere, Nebraska when Cas did that _thing_ with his mouth and Dean gripped the bedframe so hard he broke the damn thing. Not to mention the time in that little town in backwoods New York where Cas pinned him against the wall by his wrists and fucked him so hard that Dean couldn't sit the next day and had sported bruises on his hips and around his wrists for over a week.

But this was different.

Under normal circumstances Dean wasn't sure how he would react to the soft, barely-there caresses. They're nice, sure, but at any other time he'd have probably put up with them for less than ten seconds before dragging the angel into something more forceful. But right now, it was _good_.

More than good.

It was everything that Hell was not. Gentle. Steady. Loving. Kind. Every brush of his fingertips, every moment he spent lost in that bright blue shine he could feel some of the tension leaking from his muscles. Slowly his breath evened out, deepening and slowing to match the puffs of Castiel's breath against his lips.

Perfect.

Castiel gathered the hem of the soft cotton henley between his fingertips and hummed a request. Dean tensed, but gave a short nod of assent, bracing himself. Instead of removing the shirt though, the angel's fingers remained where they were, kneading the taunt stretch of Dean's flesh with his knuckles. A moment passed and Dean found himself leaning into the angel's touch, dipping his face just enough to brush their noses together. Castiel took the further encouragement for what it was – permission – and slid the soft cotton up his body.

The breeze whispered against his bare flesh. A hiss fell from Dean's lips before he could stop it, a convulsive shiver rippling through his torso.

"Dean?" The concern in Castiel's voice broke his heart.

_You don't deserve him_, Dean told himself. "Just the breeze," he reassured hoarsely.

"Do you want to get in the car? Go inside?"

Dean broke the connection of their foreheads, jerking his head sharply. "Can't go inside," he ground out. "I have to… I need to stay in the open."

Cas looked like he wanted to say something but instead just nodded and pulled the worn bit of cotton from his body. A strangled whimper fell from his mouth as Cas planted a tender kiss on his forehead, and then his nose, each of his cheeks, and then his chin. Dropping the shirt to the hood of Impala, Cas raised his hands and cupped Dean's face gently between them.

He nodded to the gentle question on the angel's face, recognizing that Cas was being careful to give him as many outs as Dean normally would give him.

Normally that would bug the absolute shit out of him. Tonight he's so damn thankful for it that it's pathetic.

Castiel's lips were soft and firm, barely moving against his own. Even now, giving him the chance to back away if it became too much; if the sensations of flesh against his own overwhelmed him.

Dean kissed him back, humming soft permission behind the movement of his lips. "Please," he added softly as Cas dragged his lips across the stubble coating his jaw and gently pushed Dean back against the windshield.

"Of course," Cas rumbled and it was a fight to keep his eyes from fluttering shut because _God_, that _voice_. _This_ was the memory he needed to hang on to. The memory of Castiel's voice, naturally deep anyway, roughened and deepened even further: that normal clipped precision of his cadence dissolving as desire overtook him.

Dean lay against the windshield, the glass cool against his bare skin, and watched as the angel removed the rest of his clothes. Jeans, boxers, and his socks all joined the tank at the edge of the Impala's hood, the pile wobbling dangerously with every addition. The last sock sent it over the edge. Castiel followed the line of his gaze, a half-amused, half-impatient huff exciting his lips. "I'll get them later," he promised, voice vibrating in chest as he straddled Dean's legs.

Dean swallowed.

Still fully clothed, Cas leaned over him and planted his hands on either side of Dean's head. The tan material of the trench coat fluttered down around them, sheltering Dean.

"Beautiful," Cas breathed and lowered his head.

Something painful hitched in Dean's chest as he felt the angel's lips against his. It was the barest brush of a kiss and then Cas was gone again, the firm curve of his lips tracing the lines of his face. Trembling, throat choking with unshed tears, Dean watched with wide eyes as Castiel ghosted kisses over every square inch of his exposed skin.

He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve _him_. Didn't deserve the fucking look on the angel's face as he moved over him: like Dean was the most god damn precious thing in the whole universe.

He knew the truth, knew how far from precious he really was.

But just for a minute, lost in that look on Cas' face, he almost believed.

"Jesus," Dean gasped out, fisting the loose fabric at the shoulders of the coat as Castiel's breath traced the length of his cock.

"Not quite," Castiel corrected with a small smile.

"Bastard," Dean muttered as Cas pressed a kiss to the inside of his thigh.

"I'm sure others would agree."

"Stop being such a smartass and… _fuck_!" He caught a brief glance of Cas grinning around his cock before his eyes rolled back in his head, breathy little gasps breaking from his lips as the angel's mouth inched its way down his erection. When he reached the base Cas froze, holding position as he hummed around Dean's length. "Son… of… a … bitch…" Dean managed to gasp out once Cas finally eased his way back up, releasing his cock with a wet _pop_.

Castiel smiled and bent his head back down.

"_FUCK."_

Dean wove his fingers through the messy mop of black hair, clenching it so tight that no doubt he'd come away with strands of it still caught in his fingers. Part of him screamed _harder, faster, more – GOD DAMN IT, MORE!_

It didn't help that Cas all but purring beneath the rough tug of his fingers, the muscles of his throat clenching and vibrating around Dean's length.

He held tight as Cas moved his mouth up and down, cheeks hollowing ever so slightly. He got lost in the tongue tracing his length, the slight drag of his teeth just behind the head, tongue swirling and pressing against his slit… His hips rolled, following the heat of the angel's mouth. Above him the heavens wheeled, the great velvety blue expanse blurring before his gaze.

Dean groaned. "Cas… I'm…"

The groan turned to a whine as the saliva drenched skin hit the air and Dean's back bowed, thrusting his hips into the air as Castiel slid upwards and captured his mouth. _Faster, harder_, the voice in the back of Dean's head begged but when he tried to press back, tried to thrust his tongue into his lover's mouth Cas stopped him with a gentle stroke of his own tongue. "No, Dean," Cas breathed into his mouth. "Not tonight." Dean jerked his head in acknowledgement, not wanting to bother looking at the warm relief blossoming in his chest.

_Weak_, _that's what I am. I'm…_

"Stop thinking, Dean."

And for once in his miserable life Dean decided to do what he was told.

Castiel's lips were soft against his own. He moved then gently, coaxing Dean's open so that he could tease their tongues together. His fingers were soft, but insistent as they trailed down Dean's body, hands gripping him by the thighs and spreading him just a little further. He finally released Dean's mouth, humming in approval as Dean sought to follow him, keening slightly at the loss. Cas stopped him by pressing their foreheads together, cradling the back of his head and thumbing the short, soft hairs growing at the nape of his neck. "Dean, if at any point it is too much it is imperative that you let me know. I will stop. I promise you." Trust Cas to be able to trot out the fancy ass words in a voice that was absolutely _wrecked_. _That_ was the noise he needed to hold close and remember. "Dean…"

He jerked his head in acknowledgement. "I know," he forced out – hell, who was he to talk about wrecked – because he knew that right now, tonight, a nod of his head wasn't going to be enough. Castiel needed to hear him; needed to know that he understood.

Carefully watching him out of lust blown eyes Cas rocked back to his knees. From his pocket he pulled a small bottle and it was thirty seconds of wide eyed blinking and watching the angel spread it over his fingers before Dean realized what it was. "You keep lube in your pocket?" he asked, unable to hide his amusement. Cas looked up from his fingers.

"I like to be prepared."

A small chuff of laughter spilled out of Dean's mouth, his lips turning upwards in a genuine grin. "You're such a fucking boy scout."

"I do not understand that reference."

Dean inhaled sharply, explanation dying on his tongue as the angel's finger pressed gently, if firmly, at his hole. "Cas…"

"I will stop if you want me to."

Dean growled, his entire body tensing as Castiel's finger eased inside. "Don't… you… fucking… dare," he hissed between breaths. Cas nodded. After giving him a few moments to adjust he began to move his finger in and out.

"As you wish," he breathed.

Dean moaned and some part of his brain made a note to find Cas a copy of _The Princess Bride_.

The angel's pace was gentle; moving in and out of him with a single digit long after his body was ready for more. Even when he finally added the second finger he did not push but continued with the same rhythm, stroking Dean's insides until he felt like he was floating away. The Impala disappeared from underneath him. The breeze stopped moving over him. All sounds disappeared. Soon it was nothing but him, caged so fragilely within his skin, anchored only to the earth by the touch of the angel's fingers and the intensity of that too blue gaze against his own. The ragged noises of his own breathing speckled with the occasional gasping moan as Castiel's fingers brushed against his prostate sped his heart and made it race through his veins. Between them his cock bobbed, aching for attention as pre-cum leaked steadily over the planes of his stomach.

When Castiel finally withdrew his fingers Dean thought he might scream with frustration as the angel tenderly lined himself up and pressed inward. He did scream with pleasure: short, little bursts that he couldn't hold back as Castiel sank into him, burying himself inch by glorious inch. Once he bottomed out Cas stilled, once again giving him time to adjust and gently rubbing across his hips and down the juncture of his thighs.

"_Cas…_" Dean whined. His entire body was trembling again, but for an entirely different reason.

"Dean," the angel replied his voice so rough and low that Dean scarcely recognized his own name.

Grasping Dean by the hips the angel pulled him closer, lifting his ass into a better position, and began to move.

_This_. This was what he needed to remember. Not a heart in his hands or muscle strands snapping between his fingers. _This_. The sight of Cas kneeling between his bent legs, naked and so beautiful it made his heart hurt and tears sting at his eyes. _This._ The unmistakable hum of Cas' pleasure, a precious noise that always made the angel seem more feline than human. _This_. The feeling of Cas moving inside of him. The consistent, gentle strokes that brushed the head of his cock up against Dean's prostate with every thrust and left another drop of fire burning in his gut.

Slowly he was filled; slowly he was lit on fire and burned with something gentle and warm that spread from his loins up to his chest, thrumming against his ribs with every beat of his heart. He looked into Castiel's eyes, those brilliant blue eyes now nothing more than a faint glint of sapphire barely visible around the darkness of blown pupils, and begged.

With the soft, tender smile that scrunched his nose and crinkled the skin around his eyes – the smile reserved only for Dean – Castiel reached down between them and wrapped a hand firmly around Dean's erection. If he had jerked him twice it would have been done, over with two swipes against his head but Cas knew him better than that. He touched him with long, languid strokes that moved from base to tip, his thumb pressing ever so slightly against the sensitive spot just underneath the head as he swept by.

Something broke in Dean. Between the strokes on his cock and the touch of the cock inside of him he twisted apart. He shattered, losing every bit of himself. With a desperate cry his hips bucked as he surged upward enough to grab the angel's shoulders, gripping them tight enough to bruise.

He came with a sob, crying into the curve of Castiel's shoulder as the angel stroked him through his climax, never changing his pace.

_This_ was what he needed to remember. This flash of brightness, the infinite tenderness that exploded in his core like a god damn atomic bomb and chased away every shred of darkness until nothing but light – the light Cas had put there – remained.

With a soft grunt Castiel hauled Dean up into his lap, holding him there with a hand on the ass and fingers clenching the short spikes of his hair. Dean clung to him, rocking his hips as Cas shoved up into him once, twice, thrice, and then shuddered, wrapping Dean in a low groan that shivered along his skin and made his bones ache. He could feel the hot spurt and jump of the angel's seed inside of him as Cas turned, burying his nose in Dean's hair.

And Dean was nothing but the hammering of his own heart, the warmth of the body pressed against his own, the hot ragged breathing brushing against his ear, and the trickle of soundless tears down the cheeks hid against the angel's skin.

_This_ was what he needed to remember.

Always.

* * *

"Dude, really? I don't need to scrub the seats again do I?"

Dean blinked, squinting upwards through the rays of new sunshine streaming down on him. "What?" he groaned out, finally able to make out the shape and features of Sam's face.

The damn kid bitch faced him.

"The car, Dean. Did you and Cas mess up the inside?" Sam asked with a long suffering sigh.

Dean blinked again, scrubbing a fist across his face. He needed to shave. And brush his teeth. And holy shit had he been _asleep?_ He blinked rapidly and sat up, smiling a little at the loose ache in his ass. He was dressed again. He didn't remember doing that. It'd probably been Cas. That snap-your-fingers angel mojo was handy sometimes. He was also alone, sitting on the hood of the Impala with the tan trench coat spread over hips and legs.

"We kept our sexual activities to the outside of the car," Cas answered calmly, making Dean jump just a little as that voice washed over him. The angel stood at the front of the car, his hair more mussed than usual. He still wore both dress shirt, jacket, and tie but the shirt was only half buttoned beneath the jacket and the tie was loosened enough that the knot hung halfway down his chest.

Something behind his ribs swelled and his skin tingled in memory.

"Cas," the brothers groaned in entirely different ways.

"Jesus," Sam added under his breath, rolling his eyes as he strode away. Dean just smiled and took the foam coffee cup that Castiel offered him wordlessly. The angel watched him for a moment, a soft smile playing across his lips as Dean sipped at the coffee. Hot. Black. Just a touch of sugar. Coming around to the side of the car Cas reached into Dean's lap and removed his coat. There was a whisper of air and – if you listened close enough – the faint rustle of feathers as he swung the coat around his shoulders, shrugging into it.

"I liked your just out of bed look," Dean drawled as the angel straightened his tie, shirt buttoned and wrinkles miraculously removed as the coat settled into place.

"I do not believe it was an appropriate look for the day ahead," Cas answered seriously. His hair was back to normal now too, neatly combed and gently mussed all at the same time.

"It looks like just a standard salt and burn," Dean began.

"I will join you anyway," Castiel interrupted.

"You sure? Isn't there some special angel crap you've got to do?"

Cas offered him his hand and after a moment of hesitation Dean took it, allowing the angel to pull him from the hood of the car. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as his feet hit the ground and he could feel his jacket settling between his shoulder blades, the worn bruised leather sliding against his skin.

"Dude…" Even his mouth felt minty fresh. He'd left the facial hair though. Interesting.

"Heaven can wait." The rest of Dean's smartass comment died on his lips, leaving him tipping his head to stare down through the few inches that separated them. Cas watched him calmly, his face that careful blank of his default mode. Behind that look his blue eyes shone, shimmering and reflecting the morning light.

Dean jumped a little as Sam slammed the Impala's trunk. "I think we've established that Cas is coming. Dude, you're driving." On instinct Dean raised his hand and caught the keys that Sam threw at his head. "Because there's no way in hell I'm tromping all over this town looking for a ghost while you two make out in the backseat," he added, correctly reading the question that marched unasked across Dean's face.

"It has happened before," Cas pointed out. Dean shut his mouth and rubbed at the scruff lining his jaw.

"Just shut up," he muttered, hoping the coffee cup would hide the blush that spread up his cheeks. It didn't.

Sammy laughed as he climbed into the front seat, Cas already sitting behind him, arms braced on the front seats.

He didn't deserve them, didn't deserve either of them. That wouldn't stop him from holding on to them as long as he could.

_This_, Dean thought as his fist tightened around the keys. _This_ was what he needed to remember.


End file.
